For the sga_flashfic "Harlequin" challenge, as well as Slodwick's Worst-Case Scenario challenge. Warning: Crack, AU.RUNNING BLIND
By Cherry Ice
The first time John Sheppard sees Rodney McKay, Rodney is being struck by a car.
John is walking down the boardwalk, bare shoulders hot in the heavy afternoon sun. The wood echoes beneath his feet and the glare off the ocean penetrates the sunglasses perched on his nose. Everything smells like salt and sand, and all around him are men in swim trunks, women in sundresses, children with ice cream dripping melting in their cones and dripping down their hands.
The crash of surf is loud, as is the laughter of sunbathers. Radios spill overlapping stations out the open front doors of shops, the open patios of restaurants. The seagulls are swooping and cawing, and through this, John hears tires squeal.
The squeal of tires, then the rise and fall of the Doppler effect as a car tears by him. He turns to look as it goes because this is a pedestrian street more than anything – vehicles crawl and teenagers dart back and forth off the boardwalk, across the pavement. The car is a late-model Camry with tinted windows. Past him, paint glossy and flashing in the sun. John catches a flash of his reflection in windows, shadows beneath his eyes.
He looks pale beneath his tan, John has time to think before his brain catches up with him, because the car is bearing down on a man crossing the street just down the block. He doesn't get a good look at him, then, just a flash of brown and white.
A woman is screaming.
The first time John Sheppard sees Rodney McKay, he is a starfish outlined against a bright blue sky. There is no squeal of breaks.
The air is filled with brightly coloured paper a second late (pink and yellow and green) and the noise of wood cracking. John is running, flip-flops slapping against the boardwalk, and there are children crying.
What he expects (what he is preparing himself for, what he is remembering) is a tangled sprawl of limbs at awkward angles, flashes of blood and exposed bone. What he gets is a man with a rather dazed expression lying in the remains of a vendor cart.
Well, kind of lying in the remains.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John snaps, putting his hand on the man's chest and pushing him back down.
"I should think," the man says, blood trickling slowly into his eyes, "that that should be self-evident, even to one of the surfer subclass." His lips are compressed into a thin line, but he lets John push him back down into the – parasols. The broken remains of paper parasols.
"I don’t know if this escaped your attention, but you were just hit by a car," John says dryly. Runs his hands over the other man's limbs, checking for breaks. "Can you move your toes?"
"Can I move my – what kind of a question is that?" he asks, pushing John aside and scrambling to his feet. The blood shifts and runs down his left cheek.
"A perfectly valid one when you consider you were just hit by a car," a voice says, and John snaps his head up. There's a black man with dreads reholstering his cell phone and looking sadly at the broken cart and parasols.
"I jumped and tucked," the man says, taking a step forward before he starts to stagger. John catches his arm and settles him down on the curb. "Not exactly rocket science," he continues. "Protect the vital organs. Distribute the force. I came untucked in the air, but --" He puts his head down on his knees and his voice goes wobbly. "Don't know why they say 'not exactly rocket science,' anyway. Rocket science really isn't all that complicated if you have the slightest modicum of intelligence."
"You feel like calling an ambulance?" John asks the stall owner, gesturing at his cell phone.
"Already did," he says. "Shouldn't be long."
"I was just hit by a car," the man behind them says. "I was just. Oh, God. Did someone call the police?"
"It's okay," John says, sitting on the curb beside him. "Probably several someones by this point. I'm afraid I didn't catch the license plate on the car, but –"
John finds himself grabbed by the shoulders and yanked half-off the curb. "You don't understand," the other man says, face pale from more than blood loss (he hasn't lost that much blood, John is able to clinically note). "I can't go to the police."
"Look," John says, thinking about head wounds and disorientation, "The ambulance will be here soon, and the nice paramedics will take care of you."
"Look," the man says, fingers tightening painfully on John's shoulders. "Let me makes this very clear. I am, aside from possible internal hemorrhaging, fine. If you, in your inexplicable concern for my well-being, wish me to stay fine, you will get me out of here as quickly as possible."
"I think," John says, "that you need to see a doctor."
"You think?" the other man asks. "Oh, how novel. Would you like a prize?"
Deep breaths, John tells himself. Behind him, the stall owner makes a gravelly sort of noise that could be constituted as a laugh. "—that you need to see a doctor," he finishes.
"Luckily for both of us, I am a doctor," he replies. There's more blood in his eyes and he's blinking. His hands are shaking a bit. "Police, hospital? Best way to make sure that they find me."
Paranoia, John thinks.
"Please. I think that getting hit by a car pretty much justifies my paranoia."
Deep breaths, John tells himself. In the distance, he can hear sirens.
"Please," the other man asks him, and there is something naked in his eyes.
"I'll tell them I did not notice which direction you went in," the stall owner says. John notices only then the faded gang tattoo on his neck, wonders what this man knows about running.
"Fine," John says, getting a few drops of blood on his hands as he hauls the other man to his feet. "Not like I had anything else planned for today, anyway."
*
"McKay," he says, forehead against the window, John's t-shirt balled up and pressed to the side of his head.
"Pardon?" John asks, swinging the candy-apple red Silvardo between a Mustang and an SUV on the freeway. His surfboard is firmly attached to the rack.
"My name," he says. "Is Rodney McKay. Or was, if you keep driving like this."
"Relax," John says, thinking: beggars can't be choosers. "It's much safer to be on the side of one of these babies if something goes wrong. Force of the impact is partially absorbed by the crumpling of the material, and –"
"Thank you for that illuminating lesson," Rodney says. Blood has made its way through the t-shirt, and he isn't wearing his seat belt. "If I didn't have PhDs in things relating to physics, I might have found it vaguely interesting-ish. Take the next left."
John, grinning, steps on the gas and drifts leftward between two semis. Rodney makes undignified noises that might be swears in Russian.
*
The bellhop eyes them uneasily as they step into the hotel. John is shirtless and the drying seawater left his hair stiff and unruly with salt. Rodney has a rip in his t-shirt and dried blood on his face, but scowls fiercely enough that they are left alone.
"Not that I don't appreciate the ride," Rodney says as John trails after him across the lobby. "But I'm fine. And you're drawing attention to me. Attention which, may I point out, I do not need."
"Uh-huh," John says, and follows him into the elevator. "Because walking around with a heady wound doesn't make anyone bat an eye."
The elevator door slides closed and Rodney leans against the wall and crosses his arms. The head wound is really only a scratch, John can see now that it's stopped bleeding. Rodney left his t-shirt bloody on the front seat of the truck, wet on the leather.
"Floor?" John asks blandly, because Rodney is trying to appear badass but looks nothing but tired.
Rodney blinks.
"Look—" John says, ready to launch into a whole thing about how if Rodney passes out in the elevator or the hall, it'll be the ambulance anyway, and that would be a waste of a perfectly good t-shit.
"Twelfth," Rodney says, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall.
That was a waste of a perfectly good spiel, John thinks.
"Twelve. One – two," Rodney says. "Directly following eleven, which looks like a pair of surfboards, side by side. If that helps."
Deep breaths, John thinks, and doesn't push seven and nine as well, just to be contrary.
The ride is uninterrupted, and John takes the time to study Rodney. He looks unnatural at rest, uncomfortable in his clothes. There are hollows beneath his eyes that had to have taken months to develop. Board shorts and a worn MIT t-shirt expose pale skin tight with the beginnings of sunburn. If he's trying to blend in, John thinks, the change in attire has made him stand out more. The curve of his neck is curiously vulnerable.
The chime sounds, doors sliding open to the twelfth floor. John sticks his head out, checking the corridor for – well, he's not sure what, exactly, but something – and Rodney brushes past him.
"Thank you for the escort," he says, as John trails in his wake, "but I think," he says, as he pulls a keycard from his back pocket and swipes it, "that I can take it from—"
(Over Rodney's shoulder, John can see feathers drifting in the air, overturned tables, broken mirrors, slashed bedding, drawers upended all over the place.)
"—here."
*
Beckett's office is small but cozy. The walls are painted eggshell white, bright enough to give the illusion of more space and warm enough to be soothing. Most of the magazines in the waiting room are relatively current – genetics and modern medicine, subscriptions marked 'Carson Beckett' instead of 'Pegasus Practices.'
"John," Beckett says, stepping into the waiting room. He's wearing pained expression with his sweater and jeans, was already at home when John called, said: I have a situation, and I'm calling in a favour.
"How is he?" John asks.
"Blood sugar was a bit low," Beckett says. "I gave him some juice to bring it back up."
"And the head wound?"
Beckett snorts. "Three stitches. I've had wee children who complained less than he did."
"That," Rodney says, emerging from the examination room in one of Beckett's old t-shirts. The blood is gone from his face and neck, but his eyes are red-rimmed. "Is because they don't yet have the have the critical facilities to understand that medicine is so much voodoo."
"I'd like to keep him overnight for observation," Beckett continues, not breaking eye contact with John.
"No, you wouldn't," Rodney says. "My charm is too prickly for those of lesser intellects."
"I would feel better," Beckett says, "if I were to keep him overnight for observation. Just to be safe."
John feels the corner of his mouth start to twitch.
"An honest man," Rodney snorts. "So rare these days. I'll be in the truck." The bell rings as the door slams shut behind him, and John feels the twitching intensify.
"He really didn't want to come," John says by way of explanation.
"Aye," Beckett says. "I can certainly see that. How did you manage—"
"Parked the truck outside and refused to move. Turns out he's not very good at waiting."
"For some reason, John, that doesn't come as much of a shock to me. He's got a minor concussion, but I can't be sure as to the severity. Try to keep him awake."
John snorts. Clasps Beckett's shoulder. "Thanks for coming in. Tell your mother I'm sorry I interrupted dinner."
"It was meatloaf, John. I truly didn't mind the intrusion."
Beckett's mother was a damn fine lady, but her meatloaf was a known weapon of mass destruction.
"John," Beckett says when Sheppard is half way to the door. "What are you playing at, here?"
"Not playing, Carson," he says, standing by the door in another one of Beckett's old shirts. "And I can't see as how it's any of your business."
Beckett was a Company man, but missing family practice wasn't the only reason he left.
*
Rodney is sitting in the truck outside, one hand on the dash, the other hovering a half inch from the gauze taped over his stitches. He's staring out the window at where the stars would be if it weren't for the city lights. He doesn't say anything when John starts the truck and pulls out of the lot.
He's silent the entire drive, as the city drops away around them. His hands flicker across the dash and the hem of his borrowed t-shirt, dart towards the gauze and back again without touching it. If John keeps looking at him, it's just to make sure that he hasn't fallen asleep.
Rodney shakes his head when John finally pulls over and kills the engine. There is forest all around them, and the city lights are no more than a distant glow above the southeast tree line.
"Where –" Rodney starts, looking at John across the dark cab of the truck.
"My cabin," John tells him. His fingers are casually loose on the steering wheel because, really, what is there to be tense about?
"I don't know how they found me," Rodney says. His skin is pale enough that it shows through the dark, a blur of cheek and chin and gauze-wrapped wound. "I don't know."
And THAT, John realizes, is what is bothering Rodney. Not that they found him, but that he doesn’t know how. "We weren't followed out here," he says.
"And you know this how?"
"Because I was watching," John tells him. "Doesn't take a genius to spot someone following you on a long, straight road when you can see something like ten miles behind you."
"Why are you doing this?" Rodney asks. "What do you get out of it?"
John's fingers on the steering wheel tighten, white through his tan. "Like I said," he says, easily. "Didn't have anything else to do today."
*
The cabin is neat inside (a few clean dishes in the drip rack, a book on the coffee table, scribbled reminder stuck to the fridge), and when John turns on the lights they hurt his eyes. He figures it's probably worse for a guy with a concussion, so he dims them right away.
"Thanks," Rodney says, dropping into the couch. John drops down beside him, staring blankly at the Navajo blanket pinned to the wall and wondering what the ever-loving fuck he's doing. Rodney's leg is pressed against his, warm and reassuring. They're both wearing shorts, so John stares at the wall and thinks about something other than skin on skin and Rodney's restless hands.
"This is fun," Rodney says, finally. "This has all been fun, really, with the near-death experience and all, but I should go." He shifts on the couch but makes no real move to leave.
"Yeah," John says. "We'll have to do it again some time."
"Right," Rodney says, and he really does get up, pushes stiffly up and off of the couch, leaving John blinking.
"What are you doing?"
Rodney sighs. "Once again with the obvious questions."
John thinks he should probably be more offended, but Doctor Beckett is one of the smartest people he knows, and Rodney didn't have much respect for his intelligence, either.
"I'm leaving," Rodney elaborates. "Best for both of us, really. Thank you for all your help, but—"
"You're leaving?"
Rodney rolls his eyes. "It's always the pretty ones, isn't it?"
John's lip starts to twitch. "How, exactly were you planning on doing that?"
"Well," he says, "I thought that I'd hop into the truck—"
"That truck?" John asks, reaching into his pocket. "That uses these keys?"
"I have a PhD in mechanical engineering. Like I don't know hot to hotwire a truck."
"That truck, parked in these woods, that doesn't have a GPS system installed?"
Rodney stops with his hand on the door. "I don't suppose you'd like to draw me a map?"
"I'd rather you stayed the night, actually," John says. He's standing easily in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, barefoot on the tiled floor.
Rodney's eyes are curiously dark when he looks at him. "Look," he says. "I don't think you understand the possible danger here."
"I saw you get hit by a CAR," John says, voice low. Takes a measured step forward, then another.
"This selfless thing is really not something I'm good at," Rodney says. Stammers a bit as John invades his personal space. "It's really not, but I am trying, damn it. I am trying."
"Rodney," John says, standing close enough to touch, head tilted and wolfish smile. "Wouldn't you rather stay the night?"
"That question, aside from having a blatantly obvious answer, is blatantly unfair," Rodney says, obviously weakening. "Are you a natural blonde?"
"Besides," John continues. "Beckett said to keep you awake."
"Right," Rodney says, and John can hear him swallow, feel the heat from his nascent sunburn.
"Rodney," John says, leaning forward to whisper. "I'm not exactly being selfless here, either."
Rodney closes his eyes. "Right," he says again. Opens them. Wraps his hands in John's shirt and pushes him back against the wall.
"Right," John says. Rodney's body is covered with bruises and he's every bit as good with his mouth as John thought he would be. It's been a long time (too long, too tired, too hard) and John comes biting his lower lip, blood in his mouth and heart in his throat.
"Tell me a story," he says, when it's over, because Rodney's eyes are drifting shut.
"Don't know any," Rodney mumbles into the pillow, talks about string theory and quasars and white holes and Chopin until the sun spills in through the glass, trees waving in the window and casting shadows across his face.
*
Rodney takes disgustingly hot showers, steam wafting out the bathroom door and condensation clinging to the walls.
John puts on the clothes he pulls from the drawers without paying too much attention to them. The heat of the day is already making itself known, dew on the grass long since evaporated, and John scowls as he brushes his teeth. "You realize this isn't a sauna?" he asks, because really, guests should show some courtesy.
"I wondered why there weren't any rocks to pour water over," Rodney says from the behind the curtain. "You can't really appreciate a good, hot shower until your fifth grade teacher has made you walk across town when the radio says 'exposed skin freezes in seconds,' all so that you can go curling for gym class. Or until you end up in S..."
"Canadian?" John asks, thinks about Antarctica and pretends not to notice Rodney's censor. There's a second toothbrush, unopened in the cupboard and he thinks about removing it.
"As maple syrup." The water cuts out, and John presses a towel into the hand Rodney sticks out from behind the curtain. "Though I've never actually liked maple syrup much. Highly overrated."
"I have to head in to work," John says. "Just for a few hours."
"Great," Rodney says, emerging with his hair slicked to his head. "You can drop me off in the city."
"And?" John asks. "Then what?"
"I'll hope a train or a plane or an automobile," Rodney snaps.
"They'll be looking for you, won't they?"
"Of course they will," Rodney says. Grabs the second toothbrush and attacks his teeth. "All the more reason for me to keep on the move. Look, it's been fun –"
Rodney's back is mottled black and blue and white, and he has carefully patted his stitches dry.
"I was hoping you'd stay for a few days," John says. Places a hand on the other man's spine, fingers spread around the bruises. Rodney's pause is almost imperceptible. "Let them think you've moved on, and take off when they're looking for you elsewhere."
Rodney finishes brushing his teeth, stands with his arms braced on the sink. "Don't you want to know why they're after me?" he asks.
Deep breaths.
"You'll tell me," John says. Doesn't tighten his hand into a fist. "When you're ready."
Rodney stares at where his refection would be if it weren't obscured by condensation. "Just a day or two," he says, finally.
"Good," John says, smiling with his voice if not his eyes. "I'll be back in a few hours."
Rodney snorts. "I'm sure all the children would be devastated if their surfing instructor didn't show up."
John grins. "No, but Kavanagh's going to get out of hand if I'm not around to check his math."
Rodney blinks. "You—"
"Work at a think tank." He can see the gear turning in Rodney's head, assumptions shifting and realigning.
John turns his head from the sight. He has a job to do.
*
John drives too fast into the city, windows down and System of a Down too loud on the stereo. He buys Tylenol, Advil, at the store (thinks of Rodney's back and his stitches, doesn't grab Aspirin), chocolate bars, a bottle of scotch.
He sits in the parking lot for a long time, staring at his hands on the wheel in the heat reflecting off the blacktop, then drives back home.
When he gets back, Rodney is working on the laptop John assumes is supposed to be his. He wonders what his high score is in Minesweeper, if he has porn hidden on it somewhere. There are papers scattered around the living room, covered in equations written in black pen. John tries not to look at them too closely.
Rodney waves distractedly at him, mouth cocked sideways and muttering under his breath about the stupidity of people in general.
John finds it comforting.
Rodney has a series of scars on the left side of his chest. They are healed but still pink, and he flinches when John touches them.
*
The next day, when John says he's going into work, he goes to the office. The office is air conditioned, of course. He feels out of place and chilled in his shorts and t-shirt, used to the press of a suit coat and pressure of a tie.
"Afternoon, sir," Ford says. The paperwork on his desk is neatly stacked and filed, a sharp contrast to Sheppard's, which is coated liberally in folders and memos.
"Good afternoon," Sheppard says, dropping into his chair. The leather raises goose bumps on his arms. He flips through the first folder absently, and tries not to notice that his partner is studiously ignoring him. "Not going to ask how it's going?" he asks, finally.
"No need to, sir," Ford says, looking pointedly at Sheppard's swollen lip, his neck. John reaches up self consciously, rubbing at the junction of neck and shoulder. "The hickey," Ford says, "speaks volumes."
"Damn it," John says, voice low. The office door is closed, but – "You agreed. This was the only way. You know we need –"
"With all due respect, sir," Ford says, "I never agreed with this, and there's always another way."
"The Russians –"
"The FSB hasn't sunk this low yet. Sir."
"Right," Sheppard says, and stands. The file is thick between his fingers, and Ford makes him feel ancient and much too worldly. "Anything new?"
"Nothing, really," Ford says, still typing. "An agent in the mid-west picked up a bit of chatter, but nothing solid. I'll let you know if anything comes up."
"Right," John says, and puts the file down on the desk. DOCTOR RODNEY MCKAY, it says. The picture clipped to the front stares at him long after he has left the room.
*
The next day, when he says he's going to work, John drives to the shore and drinks half the bottle of scotch. The beach he's at is deserted and has driftwood lodged all over in the sand. He goes swimming, drunk, staying under water longer and longer with each stroke.
The sun is bright and he burns through his tan. He climbs in the truck still wet, not caring what the water and salt will do to the leather seats. He drives barefoot, sand between his toes and salt itching at his eyes, his skin.
When he gets back, he drags Rodney into the shower, fully clothed. He is careful not to touch his face because of the stitches, just peels him slowly out of wet and clinging clothing.
The salt and sand run in the hot water from John's sunburn, and he blinks furiously in the spray.
There's salt in the cut in his lip, and it burns.
*
The day after that, John starts trying to find a ghost.
A ghost with a global empire.
*
Rodney talks. Rodney talks with his hands, with his eyes, spews a steady stream of conjecture and insults, talks during sex, reduced to almost non-verbal babble.
John listens with his lizard brain, to the rise and fall of Rodney's words, listens with his eyes to the motion and movement.
"—and that was when they threw me down an started with the group sex," Rodney says.
John blinks. "Right. Austrian super models. Group sex. Got you."
Rodney is sitting at the kitchen table, typing. John is at the sink, peeling potatoes.
"Siberian, actually," Rodney says. "And they weren't so much super models as hulking guards."
John hears the clicking of the keys slow, stop.
"And it wasn't so much group sex as an interrogation."
Three broken fingers, two cracked ribs. A series of incisions along the left side of his chest. John knows it all.
"I found something," Rodney says, behind him. The laptop clicks shut. John peels potatoes. "Something they wanted."
Shut up, John thinks.
"Something I didn't think they should have. That government should have."
Shut up.
"John—" Rodney starts.
The knife he's using to peel potatoes slips. There's a cold burn, and he watches, distantly, as his blood drips into the sink.
"John—" Rodney says, stepping closer, then: "John!"
John swears, and Rodney completely forgets what he was going to say.
*
John is closing in on his ghost. He can feel it. He put Ford on the case, and Ford is almost impossible to shake.
He is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and running leads in his head, trying to fit them into a pattern. The window is open, night breeze coming in through the trees. Rodney flops down beside him, letting out a wincing exhale. He's still sore, though his bruises are starting to fade to purple and green.
"Hey," Rodney says. Turns on his side and kisses him. John returns the kiss absently, trying to piece together a letter from Tunisia and an Australian voice in the background of a phone call. "So, I was thinking," Rodney says, hand almost resting on John's hip, hovering a short distance from the fabric.
"Big surprise there," John grunts, rolls half on top of Rodney and bites at the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck. "Maybe you should stop," he says, because he knows where this is going.
"The thing is," Rodney says, not rolling his hips at all. Or only a little. "Is that –"
Through the window, John hears motion in the woods outside. "Quiet," he says, hand covering Rodney's mouth.
Beneath him, Rodney stills. At least three, John thinks, counting the noises of motion around the cabin. When he looks down, Rodney is frozen and there is something in his eyes --
(John has him pinned, one hand over his mouth, body quivering for action. He wonders if this is how it started last time.)
-- "I'm sorry," John whispers, low.
Then the shooting starts.
*
John is pinned down behind the living room chair. His last clip, pulled from the pantry cupboard, is almost empty. "CIA!" he is yelling. "Step down!" He took a shot to the leg early on, and his pants are stuck to his skin. Rodney is behind the island in the kitchen with the laptop clutched to his chest. A shot hits the floor less than two feet from him, and he flinches from the chips of tile that go flying.
I'm sorry, John wants to say, but he doesn't think that Rodney would hear him anyway.
Shots ring out again, but none of them are directed into the cabin. There's a second volley, and then the sound of crossfire, getting more and more distant. There's a motion at the door and John drags himself up, sights his gun.
A woman slides through the door, all dancer's grace and gun at the ready.
Ford steps through a half second before John pulls the trigger. "Ford," John says, sagging in relief.
Sagging, sagging. He feels his gun drop from his fingers, hears it clatter to the floor. The world spins, and all he feels is grateful that the floor has swung its way around for him to lean on.
He can see Rodney above him, talking (always talking, mouth and hands flying) but he can't hear the words.
Black.
*
When John wakes up, he is alone. It's dark, and his throat is raw enough that he knows he's been recently intubated. There's a show outlined against the door, and he tries to raise his head. "Rodney?" he asks. Tries to ask.
"Just me, sir," Ford says, settling down at his bedside. His teeth and eyes flash in the shadows of his face. "You gave us a bit of a scare, there."
"How long?" John rasps, reaching for what he's pinpointed as his water.
Ford intercepts his hand and picks up the cup. "Five days," Ford says, quietly, tilting the cup to give him careful sips. "You died, once."
Yeah, the way John feels, it doesn't surprise him much.
"Rodney?" he asks as Ford takes the cup away.
"Nah. He wasn't the one who killed you," Ford says.
"He's..."
"He's okay, yeah. Working with Weir now."
John closes his eyes.
"I found her in Bulgaria," Ford says. "You were right."
So, John was right, but he woke up alone. It hardly feels a fair trade.
"Go to sleep, John," Ford says. Squeezes his hand.
Could have, should have, would have, John thinks. The thoughts are heavy, but his eyelids are heavier.
*
It turns out that the team Ford led to the cabin wasn't actually composed of CIA operatives. Its CIA component consisted, in fact, of one operative who happened to have been listed as going rogue in Bulgaria earlier that week.
"The good news," Ford says, sitting at John's beside, "is that Elizabeth has offered us both jobs."
Ford comes to visit him, sometimes with Teyla, the woman he almost shot and head of Weir's security force. Weir herself makes an appearance a time or two, personal assistant trailing at her heels and snapping orders at people in Czech. Weir is the one who built the empire of the Atlantis Corporation, and five minutes with her leaves John very glad that he is (that Rodney is) under her protection.
Rodney is conspicuous only in his absence.
John doesn't really blame him.
*
The next time John Sheppard sees Rodney McKay, Rodney is being struck by inspiration.
Everything is lit with gold, hum of formal conversation willing the spaces between the notes of the string quartet. Jewels sparkle at throats, women in bright dresses and men in black tuxes in vivid contrast. In the middle of the room, Teyla and Ford are dancing; all caramel and mocha and grace.
"Yes!" Rodney yells, and John can hear him across the room, can just see the top of his head as he pushes his way out of the room. People remain parted in his wake, and John can see Elizabeth smiling fondly and a woman with short blonde hair looking nonplussed.
Elizabeth catches John's eye before he's had time to guard his face, and he wonders what she reads there, naked. Go he sees her mouth, and tilts her head towards the exit.
He hesitates a second, torn, then exhales. "Right," he tells himself, and heads for the door because, really: What does he have left to lose?
He finds Rodney right where he thought he'd find him – in his lab, head and hands in a machine with organic, curving lines. "There's something missing," he's muttering, beneath his breath. "It should..."
"Hey," John says, standing in the doorway.
Rodney has his tux coat off and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows. There are already streaks of grease on the white fabric. "Hello," he says, and doesn't turn his head. "You'll forgive me if I don't rush to greet you with open arms."
Right. "What are you working on?" John asks. He's heard rumours, here and there – what Rodney found in Siberia, what had him running, was something that wasn't human. Reportedly, Weir's missing years had been dedicated to her search for more of the same.
"There you go," Rodney snaps, turning to face him. "Wasn't that easier?"
John blinks.
"Asking," Rodney says, eyes flinty.
John winces. "I probably deserved that."
"Probably?" Rodney has a streak of grease across his forehead as well, and John still hasn't forgotten what he tastes like.
"Okay," John says. "More than probably. But, Rodney—"
"You're sorry. I get it. I got it when you said it the first time, and I got it when you sent the flowers. Gerberas, by the way? Not what I would have expected."
"Look," John says. Stops. "I am, you know."
Rodney sighs. "I do get it. I believe that you're sorry." He sits down at his workbench, elbows propped on the table behind him. "I know we have to work together, so. I'm going to be an asshole to you for a while, but I'll get over it." He pauses. "Of course, I'm an asshole to everyone, but you're going to get a more concentrated dose."
"I hate this, you know," John says, sitting down beside Rodney. Far enough away that they don't touch. Could have, should have, would have.
"My fault as much as anyone's," Rodney says, shoving himself off the bench and towards the machine (away from John). "I should have realized when I thought: It's like someone designed my perfect—"
John's heart thumps loudly in his throat. "Rodney –"
Rodney's back is stiff. "I'd like you to leave now," he says.
"Rodney –"
"Please, John," he says, and those two words just about break John.
"Okay," he says. "If that's what you want, then –"
"It is," Rodney says, but his shoulders are hunched.
Tight, and hunched, like he looked sitting on that curb after he'd been run down by a car. "If that's what you want," John says, "why did you come visit me at the hospital?"
"I—"
"Ford told me," John says. "Said you came when you knew I'd be sleeping and hovered in the doorway."
"John—"
"Why, Rodney?"
Rodney spins to face him. "Are you trying to make this even more humiliating for me?" His eyes are hard and bright. "Are you? You made me believe you wanted me once."
John steps back into the room, towards Rodney.
"What?" Rodney yells. "You don't get it, do you? The worst part is that I still want you, even knowing that you only—"
Rodney's face is turning an odd shade of red and his hands are shaking.
Huh, John thinks, then darts forward and presses his lips to Rodney's.
Tries to press his lips to Rodney's. He misses and hits the side of his mouth instead, because he's moving fast and urgent and he's afraid that if he took the time to get closer, Rodney would have punched him in the jaw.
"—that you were only playing pretend," Rodney says. Stops. Blinks. They're pressed forehead to forehead, not moving. John can feel the movement of Rodney's eyelashes, smell that Rodney's been drinking punch. "What was that?" Rodney asks, finally.
John grins. Kisses him again and pulls back again. "There you go again, with the obvious questions," he says. Grins.
Rodney blinks at him a few more times. "Okay," he says, and John finds himself up against the doorframe. Rodney's hands, covered in grease, are caught up in his shirt.
"You know this isn't going to be easy," Rodney says. He's holding his head far enough back that John can see his eyes. "I'm an asshole, and things like this, they don't just go away. Trust is –"
"Yeah, it's not going to be easy," John says, and Rodney kisses him. "But easy come, easy go."
Rodney laughs shakily and rests his forehead against his.
They stand there for a time, not moving, sharing skin and air.
Behind them, the engine lights up and pulses in time with their breath.
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